“You sure you know what that means?” he asks. “’Cause we don’t fecking do halfway. I’ll put you in concrete.”
“I’m very familiar with what your family does,” Bran says dryly. “And yeah. I know. I’m not sayin’ it because it sounds nice. I’m sayin’ it because it’s the truest thing I’ve got.”
Jack says something I can’t catch.
Kael responds with an exaggerated sigh.
“All right,” he mutters. “Fine. You love her. You saved her. You piss me off. That’s three strikes, and I still haven’t shot you.” A beat. “So what are you gonna do about it?”
“What do you mean?” Bran asks.
“You plannin’ on just…hangin’ around my cousin’s bed until Thurston gets bored, and we all pretend this never happened?” Kael says. “Or are you gonna make it official?”
I slap a hand over my face.
Of course.
Of course we’re fucking going there.
“Kael,” Bran says slowly. “I don’t think a ring solves—”
“A ring doesn’t solveshit,” Kael cuts in. “But it says somethin’. To her. To me. To anybody else who thinks she’s fair game. You wanna love her? Fine. Then step up and say it like a man who’s stayin’.”
My heart does a weird lurch-twist-flip. There’s a long pause.
“Do you have a ring in your pocket right now?” Kael presses.
“No,” Bran says, exasperated. “Jesus. I didn’t exactly get a chance to go shopping, between Santa duty and tackling your cousin in an alley.”
I huff a wet laugh into my palm.
“Then you improvise,” Kael says. “You’re good at that, aren’t you?”
Another silence. When Bran speaks again, his voice is softer.
“I was always gonna ask,” he says. “Just not like this. Not with drugs in her system and you glaring at me.”
“Life’s messy,” Kael says. “Ask anyway.”
Footsteps shift. A hand closes on the doorknob, and the door opens.
Bran steps in first, eyes going immediately to me like he has a magnet under his ribs.
Kael follows, arms folded, expression somewhere between annoyed and resigned. Jack lingers in the doorway, clearly unwilling to miss the show.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Have a nice chat?” I ask.
“Define nice,” Bran mutters.
Kael clears his throat. “Tallulah,” he says. “I owe you an apology for stormin’ in here like a lunatic.”
I blink.
“Did you hit your head on the way down the hall?” I ask.
He almost smiles.
